What Aja suggests, you'll feel safe in assuming, is aye, so are we.

"You made us what we are," yells one wheelchair-bound mutant, shortly before another has the pole of a miniature American flag shoved the fuck through his wind-pipe. What it all amounts to is a slogan a fella might find scrawled across a shit-house wall, slogan saying Terror Breeds Terror. Something to that effect.

There is much to discuss with regards this incredible work of senseless carnage and gorgeous whispers, but my shift begins in fourteen minutes and I must shave the demons out Friar Lockheart's beard afore I take my place on Bishop Knightly's cufflinks. I do so wish I could relate to you the wonders of that awe-inspiring cinematography and the debt it all owes to Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, but I can do no such thing lest I be late for my duties.

I can tell you, however, that neither Father Delaney nor Sister Shrinewipe saw very much of the picture at all, and that I myself viewed the whole affair whilst dangling between Delaney's thighs. Sister Shrinewipe spent the whole of the following evening coughing willy-muck from out her throbbing throat.

I hope this letter finds you well, sir, and that you will reply when time permits, and that you might also have had a chance to see yonder motion-film afore putting pen to paper.

Give my regards to Arthur, won't you, and do tell Elsie she's been boiling in my wrist like spit on a burning coal.

Yours,

The Duke De Mondo

Aaron Fleming Writes To The Duke De Mondo

Dear Duke De Mondo,

If my words appear restrained, if the syllabics croak across the page in tentative fear, it is because I am currently sitting underneath a large marble effigy of some or other bygone prophet. The heat is unendurable, and the full moon has brought the vicious flesh-eating local fauna out of a nearby tributary, and so the tribes-people have scarpered to their respective mud-huts. This should give me adequate time to scribble what could end up as my last will, and perhaps testament too.

Thank you for your letter, but there's been much upheaval you have not been privy to, dear chap. As of three months ago, our favorite Arthur mysteriously disappeared from his mansion on the heath. From the tangled mess left in his abode little was deduced. Missing from his possessions was but the odd piece of clothing, a fly swatter, and his DVD collection. Eventually rumors spun out that he had been seen boarding a ship headed south of the equator. I wasted no time stowing myself away on the next voyage going off that direction.

A month of sex-mad sailors later and I was at the crest of the Amazon. STDs in hand, and gums bleeding from here to Elsie's obtuse angled legs, I set off into the wilderness. More rumors circulated concerning a set of unusual Amazonian tribes deep in the Basin. I knew it wouldn't be easy to track down the man. Old boy, let me tell you, I was at a loss for weeks. At one point I almost took up residence with a witch doctor who told me he knew the secret of Brian Dennehy's procreant prowess. Dark times.